


These Days Past

by PencilofAwesomeness



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Enemies, Friends to Enemies, Friendship, Gen, I'm not at all sorry, Memoirs, Oneshot, Ratchet is a bit salty, Snapshots, The Great War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 01:36:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6779938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PencilofAwesomeness/pseuds/PencilofAwesomeness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a series of snapshots detailing Optimus Prime's and Megatron's relationship (as in strangers to friends to rivals to arch-enemies) from beginning to end, set in chronological order. No pairings. One-shot. Complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Days Past

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this was just a little bugger of an idea that wouldn't left me alone until I wrote it. It is not complex or anything, and it skips around a lot. I do not know much about the Bay-verse or G1, so this is relevant only to Transformers Prime. Also... I have absolutely no clue how Cybertronian measurements match to our human ones. I just kinda threw them around. I'm sorry, and I hope my meaning makes sense in context. This was proofread only be myself (and Rosebud at one point) so feel free to point out any typos.

Orion Pax looked up at the towering gray mech with a mix of anxiety and interest. Because surely, the clerk had never expected to come faceplate to faceplate with a gladiator.

The mech grimaced impatiently, and darted his optics from side to side, taking in the nervous glances the upper level mechs were sending the gladiator from their huddled groups among the files. Megatronus towered over the clerk, and asked again. “I _wish_ to see a datapad on the philosophies of Rotary Circa, _please_.”

The clerk’s brows rose, and dimly wondered about what was odder: that a gladiator wanted to read, or that a mech wanted to read philosophy. Orion Pax smiled up at the gladiator as he stood from his desk, and left the slightly bewildered mech standing there for a few nanokliks until the clerk returned. Surprisingly, Orion found the infamous Megatronus still there, optics betraying a slight sense of embarrassment. Did he think himself mocked? Orion softened, and handed the gladiator the datapad.

“Rotary Circa is my favorite,” Orion spoke, on a whim. The gladiator’s optics jerked up from the datapad to Orion, but the clerk just smiled gently. “I believe you shall enjoy his ideologies. I would love to compare notes.” Not that they would likely meet again.

But fate deemed it that they shall.

* * *

 

“I don’t understand why no one else actually takes these teachings to heart; Rotary Circa, Harbinger, and others like them were well respected,” Megatronus vented, servos gesturing in frustration. The gladiator sat with the clerk at a small café table.

Orion took a small sip of his energon, and vented in solemn agreement. “It would seem as if the Council, and the generations of the past, have been too dense to realize they have fallen short of what they agree to be commonplace. But it wasn’t as if these great mechs were respected during their own times,” Orion Pax rumbled, tone forlorn. The clerk and gladiator, odd a pair as they were, had connected over the gladiator’s insistent interest in the finer moral teachings of old Cybertronian legends. He must have felt the need to rant, because Megatronus finally accepted to join the Iacon clerk for a discussion. It had become a regular installment in their cycles ever since.

Megatronus grunted and looked down at his battered armor with disdain. “Yes, it would seem so… I certainly know the feeling,” he grumbled. Orion looked up, optics sympathetic yet genuinely moved by the pain his friend felt.

“You don’t deserve to be born into the Pits like that,” Orion declared, angry in his own way. “No mech does.”

Megatronus smiled into his energon cube. “You sure are something, Orion Pax.” He was the one true friend Megatronus could say he has ever had.

* * *

 

“I will not be denied!” Megatronus roared, backhanding the peace officer. “Iacon is free to all of Cybertron!”

The officers struggled to keep the gladiator down, but he was too strong for their efforts. The upper level mechs that had reported the gladiator’s constant presence stood in the distance, smug. An officer pulled out a gun, pointing it at the rowdy miner caste. “Not to low-lives like you,” he snarled, ready to fire. Megatronus growled.

“Wait!” Orion Pax smoothly intercepted the stand-off, slipping in between Megatronus and the gun. “Is this violence really the answer?”

Megatronus gaped at the clerk. “Orion, get out of here!” he hissed, worried. But Orion shot him a look, and Megatronus instantly knew that the smaller mech was going to be too stubborn to back off. The gesture would be endearing if it didn’t give the gladiator a spark-attack.

“Article 12 Section 3 of Iacon’s Purposing states that all mechs and femmes may access the public databank the center has to offer. Caste nor rank are mentioned, as it _shouldn’t be_ ,” Orion Pax clearly stated, almost sounding a bit smug himself. Almost.

The officer scowled, but relented, replacing his gun. Orion turned back to Megatronus and smiled.

* * *

 

“Megatronus, are you alright?”

The gladiator sat silently in his dim quarters, venting heavily. He stared at the transmission Orion sent, hesitating to answer. Surely, the clerk would worry more otherwise. Megatronus had managed to shield the younger mech from the detailed horrors of the Pits; he didn’t need to know.

Megatronus shifted, and his armor screamed in protest. His voicebox caught as his pain receptors flared, and the mech couldn’t help but to look down at his torn armor, glowing energon-blue in the dark of the room.

No, Orion didn’t need to know.

* * *

 

Orion Pax had never once been to the Pits before today. Much less the arena. Sullied and gruff mechs swarmed the stands, contributing to a din that encompassed the place. It made him nervous.

But, he felt deep in his spark that it was his duty to be in this Primus forsaken place. It would be hypocritical to speak against the injustice against the lower levels of Cybertron if he had not witnessed it. That, and Orion had never once seen Megatronus fight; it wasn’t excitement that drove him to see the darkest part of his friend, the part Megatronus consistently tried to hide, but rather a longing for truth. Orion didn’t want to see that darkest part, but rather, he wanted to understand it. He didn’t want to be shielded any longer.

The crowd roared when the two gladiators entered the ring. Orion did not recognize the first: he was a large black mech with messy yellow lines painted all over his armor. The second was Megatronus. Megatronus somehow looked more menacing in the ring than in person, but that was probably due to the large wicked blade casually laying atop his shoulder plates. The silver mech looked bored, unlike the cawing challenger, but was also grimacing slightly; Orion could tell his friend did not want to be there.

A bell rung, and the two began to circle each other. The change in Megatronus was astounding, and almost worrying to Orion in a way. He became a predator. His faceplate morphed into a sneer, and his pedes prowled like a graceful Predacon. It was the challenging mech that struck first, however, but Megatronus easily deflected the charge, throwing the large mech off with the edge of his horrible blade. The black mech tumbled, grabbing Megatronus by the pede to drag him along to.

Orion is ashamed to admit that there was a portion he could not watch without purging. The ring’s horrible reputation was not exaggerated. It was disgusting, and sadistic, and inhumane. Orion didn’t know whom he held the most outrage nor sympathy for: the jeering crowds, or the harsh gladiators.

Eventually, gratefully, it was Megatronus who made it out on top. He held the blade above the black mech, at his neck, but made no further movements toward the prone body. The crowd silenced in anticipation.

“Do you yield?” Megatronus rumbled loudly. He radiated power, both by his stance and his deep and commanding voice. It took a keener optic to see the slight tremble of the silver gladiator’s frame, and the heavy venting at his sides; he was tired, so tired…

The black mech faltered, a show of stubborn pride.

“Do. You. Yield?!” Megatronus repeated through ground dentas, digits closing around his blade, grip growing tighter.

The crowd began to grow restless, and a soft, though increasingly louder chant rose from the stadium, not yet decipherable to Orion but thrumming in an disturbing way. The black mech looked around, optics flickering. Resignation passed over his faceplate, and the mech slumped, defeated. The thrumming grew louder, and the miners that the crowd consisted of grew louder, more feral. The chant reached Orion’s innocent receptors, and his energon grew cold. “End him! End him! End him!”

Megatronus grimaced tightly, but this did not seem new to him. His sharp digits tapped against each other on his free servo, but the restless digits rose to meet the others on the blade, gripping it tightly as the silver gladiator slowly raised the blade. Orion stilled, faceplate paling. No… Surely Megatronus wouldn’t… Not if the mech…

“I yield,” the admission was quiet, but the words escaped the black mech’s mouth.

And Megatronus pierced the spark of his opponent.

* * *

 

“I still don’t understand why all the miners live in the lower levels of Cybertron,” Orion Pax stressed, servos gesturing in exasperation.

Ratchet spared the passionate clerk a quick look before the aspiring doctor returned to studying his datapad. The two mechs were in a corner of the Iacon database near all the medical records. No one else was around, so naturally, Orion took the chance to rant to one of his close friends. “Orion, you must understand, it’s for their convenience. All of the energon mines are located there, and the lower levels suit their equipment just fine. It’s also understandable that they reside there,” Ratchet responded, his argument holding a logical and final tone.

“Along with every other cohort reared there, and every mech who desires not to be a miner, but rather something else?” The steel in Orion’s voice caught Ratchet off-guard, and the red and white mech looked up. Somehow, Orion looked older – wiser. “Surely, mechs should be given a choice.”

“Well, yes, but…” Ratchet faltered. “That is how it has always been on Cybertron.” Orion hummed, optics far off but sad. Ratchet hated it when the mech got like this: so bent on the woes of Cybertronian society as if he had the power to do anything about it. Perhaps one day the clerk would join the ranks of the great Cybertronian philosophers he so adored, but now, when they were young, Ratchet felt it unhealthy for the mech to worry. “Look, I know it’s…” Ratchet searched for the right word to try to placate the distressed mech. “It’s unfortunate, some of the nuances of our social system, but in the end, Cybertron still functions as it should.”

“Have you ever been to the lower levels before? Seen it with your own optics?” asked Orion suddenly, his blue optics now intent on the medic.

Ratchet gaped, but quickly closed his mouth. The question was unexpected, and he could feel Orion’s sincerity – the sincerity of a mech who _has_ been there – and Ratchet couldn’t answer. Orion silently walked over to a shelf, and grabbed the last datapad Ratchet had requested, silently handing it to the red and white mech as he left with a sigh.

“I didn’t think so…”

* * *

 

“I always figured that given the chance, the miners could organize themselves – rotate through the position by solarcycles to avoid prolonged exposure.”

Megatronus regarded Orion’s insight with a nod. The mech was currently leaned back against his seat, energon cube in hand. “That could work,” he agreed. “But you must understand, very few like the mines, necessary though they are. There must some sort of leadership to account for them.”

Orion hummed in acknowledgement, drumming his digits against the table in thought. He and Megatronus often gathered at odd times, simply talking about trivial things, and more oft than not, about how they would change Cybertron if ever given the chance. It was purely hypothetical, of course, because surely mechs like them would never have the chance, saddening as that revelation may be. “An elected council, perhaps?”

Megatronus’ eye ridges shot up, insinuating his shock at the suggestion. Orion hurried to elaborate. “Nothing like the current Council, no!” he amended. “I mean… a council elected by _all_ of Cybertron, and they would be temporary – it would change over every few vorns or so.”

The silver mech nodded, processing this. “Very plausible, Orion Pax, but I do fear the inexperience of the people may hinder the right choice for leadership being made.” Because despite Orion’s faith in all of Cybertron, Megatronus had more first-servo experience with just how dense miners really were. “I still think it necessary for a leader to be chosen – trained! Only then would we have the experience needed to run this hunk of planet.”

The two contemplated the process that would be needed to elect such an individual to be trained. It wouldn’t be as easy nor simple as the legendary Matrix of Leadership merely descending upon a worthy mech. Besides, the artifact has been dormant for eons.

“If that be the case, then we must just hope that an honest individual be chosen each time,” Orion speculated. “For the sake of Cybertron.”

* * *

 

“Silence!”

Megatronus bellowed at the rowdy hoard of dilapidated miners and workmen, effectively ceasing their agitated chatter. The silver gladiator easily towered over the measly group; they were right to calm themselves.

“Bickering and complaining amongst yourselves will get nothing accomplished!” Megatronus condemned the group. “If you wish to be productive, _think for once_!” Yes, the gladiator was irritated. The mini-mob had been cawing outside his apartment for the past few cycles, and he was finally done being patient.

A thin silver mech pushed his way to the front of the crowd, regarding Megatronus without hesitation. He was much smaller than Megatronus, and if he were to guess, a seeker by looks of his frame. Obviously not suited for the brunt of the mines. “You don’t understand!” the mech hissed in a raspy voice. “Those scraplets that call themselves the Council expect _three new mines_ within a lunarcycle, and while decreasing our resources!”

Megatronus listened thoughtfully. The mechs did have ample reason to be upset, yes, but were going about it the wrong way. “Well, the Council won’t hear you down here – I suggest you protest in a more useful way.”

The seeker moved forward, intrigued. “And what might you suggest?”

Megatronus smiled, and somehow, it was almost intimidating.

* * *

 

“Don’t think these protests are a little…severe?” Orion Pax asked, concerned. The clerk wrapped some more mesh around Megatronus’ bleeding forearm, from where the officer fired upon him.

After Megatronus and Orion dispersed the protest, they had retreated back to Megatronus’ apartment. Orion had stumbled upon the protest by accident, but was glad he could at least distill the officers’ rage.

Megatronus began to shake his head, but ground his dentas as pain unwillingly flared in his processor. “No, the people have spoken; they shall receive what is just, but the only way for them to do so is to take action. Thus is what the great Auto Lock wrote; the people must revolt!” There was a wild look in his optics – fiercely determined but distant.

Orion said nothing, and finished staunching the flow of energon. There was truth to his friend’s statement, but… The idea didn’t sit well in his spark. Orion just hoped to Primus that the protests could work without any more violence.

* * *

 

“We will be heard!” the silver mech cried, at the head of the mob. A sea of grungy mechs, mostly seekers and miners and other low-class members, gathered around the Great Hall at Kaon, crying with a thrumming passion, their discontent turned to rage. The silver mech, a gladiator by the name of Megatronus – no, an activist by the name of Megatron – stood at their head. “Even if we must end you for you to hear it!”

The protests had increased over the vorns. Louder and louder came the cries of the down-trod, and the weary and forsaken miners had finally found their voice. Their crusade was vindictively just and beautiful. They placed justice in their own servos, and finally grasped control of their lives in a world that was dreadful and cruel. Justice was theirs. As was holy vengeance. And it was all thanks to the glorious leader of their mighty revolution: Megatron.

The protestors loved Megatron. He was fiery and fierce, and had a way with words. There was another great leader, a meek mech named Orion Pax, but he had faded into the background. He was too afraid to continue with their cause. But Megatron was strong. He was smart. The protestors – the weary workmen – followed him with vigor. Because he knew them. He was one of them, but wiser than they. Megatron was perfect.

* * *

Megatron was a monster. He was a terrible figure, an energon-stained gladiator, feeding lies to the rowdy miners – spreading discontentment. The protests were even worse. The wiry seekers and ungrateful miners ravaged the beautiful cities of Cyberton; they burned monuments, blew up mines, and terrorized citizens.

They had to be stopped. The Council fretted, their resources stretched. If these maniacs were not stopped, and allowed to sink into their own wild insanity, then Cybertron would suffer. Dear Primus, these days were intolerable. The Council tried to help them – to show them the error of their ways – but that terrible Megatron would always continue to feed their disillusion, to build his army of _Decepticons_.

Primus help them.

* * *

 

These days were hard: full of yearning and hardened sparks trying to fight their way through to the top. Orion Pax hated it. He was saddened by the means these mechs stooped to, just to get their way in the end; it was sickening to whatever remained of morality.

But what saddened him the most was the fallen. The fallen who resided in the AllSpark for some belief that they will never witness, and the fallen who have fell from reason into the pits of prejudice and insanity. Like Megatronus.

Orion could hardly pretend to believe he knew what was best for his friend, but he doubted it was this. Megatronus, or Megatron, or whatever he called himself now, was losing himself to passion. It was a noble cause: the helping of the downtrodden and the striving for equality. Orion wanted to believe in it, he did oh so much. But every time he laid his optics on the carnage, the screaming, the flames, the destruction – he couldn’t do it. He tried to support his friend; Orion tried and tried and tried, willing himself to find something in Megatronus’ crusade he could believe in. But every time the flames stopped him. Orion felt ashamed for no real reason. Maybe he was weak. He wanted – dreamed of – the outcome, but he couldn’t handle the battle. Perhaps Orion Pax was naïve, like Megatronus – no, Megatron – had said.

But still, somewhere deep in his spark, Orion knew. He knew that this would end one way or the other, and either way, it wasn’t going to be pretty.

* * *

 

This was the day. Today, this hour, was the time of redemption. The judgement day. Megatron beheld the Capital with hungry and anxious optics. Today, fate will be decided.

Megatron steeled himself. He would never admit it, never in front of supporters, but he was nervous. Or rather, Megatronus was nervous. He had taken this burden of a crusade upon him, and feared he would fail those he wanted to vindicate. As a gladiator, he never had the pressure of another life he was to protect before. Yes, there were strong sparks out there to aid him, but he still felt alone under this glorious burden. If only Orion Pax had not wavered.

He steeled himself again. No. It was no use mourning those sparks’ who lacked conviction; it was a tragedy of this wretched society. Something he intended to rectify. For Megatron would demand the Council to stand down, offer to fix their mistakes – or there would be war. Just as Auto Lock had once predicted.

The crowds roared behind him. The miners and low caste members who had stood behind the cause shouted their support – crying an anthem of the oppressed. He knew that some of the chaos behind him was undoubtedly opposition, who would batter his fellow mechs and femmes, but he could not care right now. Martyrs would be rightly avenged later. Megatron threw open the doors, and cut down any mech who dared stopped him.

Judgement had arrived.

* * *

 

This could not be. Megatron was so close – so close. The Council were weak, shell-less sparks, and he would defeat them. He would have freed Cybertron.

And Orion Pax came. He felt his spark pulse with gratitude and fear all at the same time. Orion had been his friend; a small, distant part of him that enjoyed the mech’s presence did not wish to see him destroyed. Not by the Council – the pantheon of liars.

Just as he always did, he tried to reason with the Council. They both knew that they would kill Megatronus, or try to at least. Poor Orion was naïve. Both by thinking he could tell the Council differently, and by thinking Megatron would not be able to fight back. For a moment, Megatronus felt melancholic pity.

Orion’s case was sound, but Megatron thought it romantic. The idea of peaceable solutions died long ago in the Pits of Kaon. The Council hardly bought it either. But then, something happened – something that Megatron nor anyone could have ever accounted for.

There was a brilliant light, and the earth rumbled. Descending from the spark of Primus came the bane of freedom and brilliance, the legendary Matrix of Leadership. It took the small and naïve Orion Pax and cast him out, bringing forth a leader of epic proportions with that same, optimistic spirit. The Council was incapable of words, and Megatron was incapable of thought. Except that he knew nothing was in his control anymore. Everything was different, and he didn’t know what to think.

If Primus sent his best, then the worst was to come. And Megatron saw no such threat.

The universe had went mad, and Megatron was falling with it.

* * *

 

“I will not cease what must be done!” Megatron bellowed. He stood in front of an anxious battalion of seekers, ready to inflict justice as they sought fit to a world that crushed them beneath their pede. And Megatron, the great Megatron, held their flag high, an insignia of freedom stitched upon it.

On the other side of the divide stood a lone figure. The mech was tall, and mighty, and strong. He himself a symbol of hope. Optimus Prime stared Megatron in the optics. Crowds hesitantly gathered behind the Prime, some self-righteous, some confused, some frightened. But Optimus Prime stood tall for them. “This is not the way, Megatronus!” In the voice of the Prime, floated the concerned spirit of Orion Pax.

But it did not penetrate Megatronus for long. “I am _Megatron_!” cried the leader of the rebellion. “And you of all mechs know what must be done!” Anger burned in Megatron. If Primus wished for their world to succumb to hierarchy, then he would have no part of it. Furthermore, anger burned in the wake of betrayal. Megatron had been betrayed by Primus, and betrayed by Orion Pax. But he would not be held back by this; he would remain strong.

“No!” Optimus denied. “Destruction is not the way! Yield, Megatronus!” Optimus Prime knew what was inevitable if this path be followed, and Orion hated what it was. “Yield, or there will be war!”

Hatred and anger burned brighter within the old gladiator – no, the leader. “Never!” he cried. Sparks all around hardened, and the truth was set. War. It was birthed in the flames of Megatron’s vindictive anger, the same flames where Megatronus died that very day.

* * *

 

“Sir, troops are standing, but they wait for an order – something! What should we do?”

Optimus looked up when two mechs entered the room. A tall and strong mech by the name of Ironhide, who had already accepted the reality of this war, and a more familiar face. Ratchet approached the Prime with revere, yet some of the same conviction he had before the Matrix of Leadership had ever fallen upon him.

“Optimus.” The new name was less foreign now, and Optimus Prime stood as Ratchet spoke. “You said it yourself – this cannot be avoided. What is done is done, and it’s either them or us.”

The Prime hardened. He forced the naivety that lingered to leave, and Orion Pax faded away. “So be it. Send the cohort of troops to the fields, and keep another back for support. We will hit the Decepticons before they know what is coming.”

* * *

 

These days were brutal. Carnage littered the once beautiful planet of Cybertron until it was unrecognizable. The radical quest for the wrong breed of freedom had led to war.

Optimus Prime stood over the valley, the same one from ages ago. He stood, tense, as Autobots and Decepticons clashed violently below. It was a large and horrible battle, where two ambushes collided. Smoke covered the battlefield like smog, and the stench of burning metal suffocated the air. Prowl had advised against Optimus’ presence, because the battle was a guarantee for death, and led the reinforcements instead. But Optimus would not stand by.

Not when the burning red eyes of Megatron loomed.

He transformed swiftly, and sped through the wreckage. Autobots and Decepticons alike struggled around him, but Optimus forced himself to ignore them: he had a goal. “Megatron!” bellowed the Prime.

Megatron regarded him with a knowing sneer, a familiar wicked sword in his hand. To use his old weapon when he had new upgrades was a jab to Optimus alone. He had expected him.

The two ran out each other with vicious clarity. Optimus called upon his own blade, put into his parts by his own mechs, and met the sword with a resounding clang that shook the field. Both mechs growled, and were a swarm of blades, blasts, and punches.

Megatron had gotten in close, his blade pushing painfully against Optimus’ arm. “You could have prevented this,” he whispered. “You could have joined me.” A faint semblance of longing passed through Megatron’s optics, but they hardened once more. “Instead you brought war to this planet.”

Optimus’ gut churned with guilt. He knew Megatron was manipulating him, but at the same time, the words were true. But Megatron was also wrong. The Prime pushed, and flipped his position; his blade now mere inches from Megatron’s faceplate. “No.” The words were spoken with unfinished conviction. “You did. You could have started this peaceable. But you filled the streets with violence.”

The silver Decepticon growled. “Words of peace were ignored. This – this is the only way.” Megatron suddenly sneered. “Unless you want to stop this now. Peaceably. Surrender, Optimus Prime. Bring the peace Orion Pax once dreamed of. _Yield_.”

Optimus paused, hope fluttering briefly before it was snuffed. No, Megatron would not end this. He knew what yielding meant to a gladiator.

“Never.”

* * *

 

Megatron stood, servos clasped behind his back, as he regarded his officers.

“I’m telling you, sir, we can invade them from the inside! No one will ever see what’s coming!” Skywarp rubbed his servos together with sadistic glee. “We will crush them!”

The Decepticon leader regarded him with mild interest. He glanced to his trusted CO, Soundwave, and the silent ex-gladiator gave him a slight shake of the head. Megatron’s brows creased with suspicion. “And how do you propose this plan be carried out?”

Skywarp grinned. “Well, if you give me some gas-bombs, and command of-”

“No.”

“But!”

“ _NO_!” Megatron backhanded the Decepticon, knocking him to the ground. “That is an order! Now, leave my presence!”

Skywarp scurried from the room, and Megatron nodded back at Soundwave. He would not give an ambitious scum control of his forces.

* * *

 

“Fifty three are wounded, fourteen offline, and twenty are MIA. Overall, we did good.” Hoist rattled off statistics of the last battle like one would a maintenance check.

Optimus vented, rubbing a servo over his faceplate. It was all the same. Numbers rolled over his processor nowadays; his spark was too burdened to feel much more. “Did we receive any intel?”

“No sir, the scouts were apprehended before making it back. The ‘bots that did don’t know nothing of value.”

“What of the third tier scouts?”

Hoist’s brows rose. “The third tier? They’re meant for long-term missions, sir; no one hears from them unless there’s an emergency. Heck, I’m not even sure all of them are on our side!”

Optimus nodded. The third tier scouts were the most experienced, and the best at lying. They could get anywhere, and anything, without anyone knowing any better. Some Autobots thought they were more like Decepticons than anything else. “Do we have any at base?”

“Yes, sir, two.”

“Send them to Tyger Pax. We need to scope the area, and see the extent of Decepticon forces there. I need the best.”

“Yes sir. May I ask what you mean to do at Tyger Pax? The Decepticons have controlled the area for eons.”

“We’re taking the AllSpark, and we’re making sure those Decepticons never touch it again.”

* * *

 

“If anyone crosses me ever again, this will be your fate!” Megatron screamed to a crowd of gathered officers. He threw the lifeless husk of Skywarp down at their pedes.

A scrawny seeker shifted uncomfortably. He was Skywarp’s replacement. “Megatro-”

“ _Stop_!” Megaton backhanded the seeker. “You will not refer to me in such casual terms! I will not stand for insubordination; I demand _respect_! I am your _Lord_ and you will treat me as such. _Understood_?”

“Y-yes, my liege,” Starscream replied, bowing deeply. Several mechs rolled their optics at the over-the-top display, but ceased when it seemed to please Megatron. No, Lord Megatron.

“Very good.” He crossed his servos behind his back. “Now, send a seeker squad to Kaon and notify the standing army to converge at Tyger Pax. We will be taking more ground, very soon.”

* * *

 

The eons that passed destroyed Cybertron. Battles decimated what was left of cities, and destroyed the resources slowly. Once Optimus Prime was so bold as to launch the AllSpark away from Megatron, growth on Cybertron stagnated; only destruction followed.

The carnage did not bother Megatron anymore. It was scars of warfare, and in the future, when Cybertronians looked back, they would see it and remember what Megatron sacrificed for them, and no one would dare defy his methods of justice.

But energon was running low. Megatron was no fool; he knew that Decepticons would not survive here much longer. The thought was almost despairing – that they would be forced to leave the land he fought so hard for. But their survival was necessary to win the war; only when Optimus and his Autobots were sparkless husks will he be able to rule Cybertron. And for that, Megatron was willing to wait.

“Starscream, prepare the _Nemesis_ ,” Megatron ordered. “And find us a new miserable planet.”

* * *

 

The Autobots found energon first.

Optimus had not felt relief in a long time, yet even in the midst of these sad days, a trickle found him. The Autobots were weakened, and losing, but Cybertron itself was a lost cause. The war, in Optimus’ eyes, had little substance now that they had killed what they sought for thousands of years. The freedom they had sought died long before that.

But now, maybe, there was a chance. A least in survival was there a semblance of independence. So the Prime sent his scouts to seek the lifeblood they needed, and pods of Autobots followed. He himself had not left Cybertron at first, but was finally coerced by Jazz to join the last vessel.

They had found a quaint planet, where a former third tier scout had reported there to be plentiful energon despite “interesting conditions” but it was good enough. Unfortunately, most of his men did not survive to see the planet after the Asteroid Storms decimated the warship. Only a handful of mismatched Autobots survived. But the planet was enough. It was peaceful, and small, and beautiful.

The Autobots there had briefly discussed calling a retrieval craft so that higher commands like Optimus might still be in contact with the rest, but they all knew it was a lost cause.

At least here, the war was over.

* * *

 

They had brought war to Earth.

Optimus Prime was no stranger to guilt, but the knowledge that he was endangering innocent lifeforms who hardly even knew they existed weighed on his spark. It was foolish of him to believe that Megatron had died; foolish to believe he could escape the war. But what was done was done.

Even if he couldn’t stop the war, he could at least try to protect Earth from Cybertron’s fate. And this he vowed.

* * *

 

The humans were pathetic.

Megatron had been grateful that Primus had given him another chance at victory and retrieved his spark from the oblivion of space, but to place their survival in the servos of such a pitiful planet was cruel irony. But that was not important. In the end, it was Optimus and the remaining Autobots that mattered; only when the Matrix of Leadership was no more could he truly remake Cybertron in his glorious image.

And this he vowed.

* * *

 

 

Fury filled him. He may have been blind before, his optics clouded, but now righteous hatred surged through his being, disillusioning his very spark.

Optimus knew what must be done. He would not let Bumblebee’s death be in vain.

The Prime raised himself, servo flying with deadly precision. Earth nor Cybertron filled his thoughts as he aimed for Megatron’s spark. One shall stand, one shall fall.

But Megatron was too fast. The giant mech dodged his blow and countered with one of his own, and before he knew it, he was falling. Falling, falling, falling into his own failure – the abyss of what could have been. Only his servo, clenching the side of the Nemesis, kept him suspended.

Optimus looked up with defiance. The cruel red eyes of Megatron sneered at him, as a silver pede prepared to dislodge him into oblivion. But it never happened; an awful screech of metal filled the air, a crash, and then silence reigned for what seemed like an eternity.

A small, black servo reached out to him, and Optimus looked up into kinder yet ancient blue optics. For a moment, he thought he once again was about to meet Primus, but the whirring optics were younger than they should be, though they told a story of horrors. Bumblebee pulled Optimus up onto the deck.

The still body of Megatron was far less imposing, yet something about it pierced past Optimus’ fading fury and into his spark. He pushed it away, and focused on the faceplate of Bumblebee, fully exposed for the first time in years, and on the voice he had nearly forgotten.

It was no use to mourn what these days past could have been. He was only grateful that they were now over.

* * *

 

Megatronus had forgotten what true pain felt like.

The pain of dying at the servos of a worthy scout was bliss compared to the eternal and omnipotent torture of Unicron. The everlasting oppression of the full force of the Devourer was too much for a spark to bare; it was terrible and awesome all at the once, the power that hung over him. The power forever out of his grip and being used to torment Megatron for the sake of it – a punishment for not truly dying, but feeding on essence that was never his to take.

He hardly knew what had become of him. The power Unicron endowed to his body was out of his reach and numb to him; his mind only knew suffering. His body was not his own.

Megatron had once thought himself better than this torment inflicted upon him, but he knew differently. He knew, in the few lucid moments he possessed, that he would have been just as cruel as Unicron, given the chance.

* * *

 

Peace was never his to know.

It was ironic, to think that his name once depicted universal peace: Orion Pax. That notion was a distant memory, however; war had ruled his thoughts and priorities for eons. He had been fighting a war for the hope of peace. Now that it was here, it was elusive.

Optimus would have been foolish to believe that the Great War would have vanished as soon as Megatron died. No. He knew that there would be measures to take and loose ends to tie up. Not all Decepticons would be as willing to lay down their weapons and cause as some of the Vehicons were. And then there was the AllSpark.

He had cast it aside for protection all those vorns ago, and going to retrieve it felt almost like some sort of dream that he hoped for but never truly considered happening. Optimus had also never considered the possibility that Unicron, the defeated Unicron, would terrorize Cybertron not even mere cycles after its rebirth.

With the Devourer upon them once more, no, he would not know peace yet.

* * *

 

He could see them.

In the fractions of reprieve from all consuming punishment, be it immense pain or eerie nothingness, he could briefly see out of his carnal eyes. The body Unicron commanded was still his, after all. Primus had deemed it so.

Normally Megatron would have enjoyed to see the Autobots (and traitorous Decepticons) suffer, but it was disconcerting to see the destruction being wrought. There was something different. He knew not whether it was his own disorientation, the ability to see the scene without involvement, or his hatred of Unicron, but Megatron could not bring himself to enjoy their misery. No, more and more Megatronus could only admire the Autobots and how they could outwit the Devourer himself. They might have been insufferable, but he could appreciate their skill.

And in light of the threat they faced, the same one he had once helped them defeat once before, Megatron had to admit that someone was there to fight for what was right, whatever that may be at the time.

And it seemed that they always knew what was.

* * *

 

“The Decepticons are no more… And that is _final_.”

Megatron had been a fool. Being back in his body, in a lucid state, everything was so much clearer. He had stopped fighting for a better Cybertron long ago. He had been fighting to destroy it – the good and the bad. And seeing Unicron try to do the same – to hear his thoughts and witness his intention – Megatronus had realized that he became no different.

As he flew, he sent out a transmission after a moment of stumbling about his own systems. That cursed armor was nothing more than a cruel reminder and a nuisance. He told every Decepticon, far and wide in the corners of the universe, the same thing he told Starscream: that it was over. He refused to consider that they might not follow his orders, but that was their own treasonous fault.

Megatronus would have no part of this war any longer.

* * *

 

This was what Peace felt like.

Optimus knew the despair his comrades, both new and old, felt, but what had to be done was done. Optimus was One with the AllSpark. Turning away from them had not been easy, and it was with a heavy spark that he made his decision.

But flying towards the Well; feeling its embrace, and remembering that caress of oblivion from so long ago? It was beautiful. About to die to the carnal world forever, Optimus never felt so alive.

Thoughts of the war, of Megatron, and of what could have been were far from his mind as he plummeted; he no longer had any burdens but this one.

He smiled, embracing the fate of heroes. He was finally at peace.

* * *

 

A purple glow illuminated the dark chamber. The age-old stains of the Gladiator’s Arena were forgotten in the wake of the cyber matter that restored the planet, but the dark energon that freshly covered the floor reminded him all too well of them.

Megatronus wanted it to go away. The memories, the guilt, the dark energon; he wanted no part of Unicron in him for any longer. It wanted – no, _needed_ – to be free of it. Free of it all.

He stood alone in the middle of an arena with far too many memories that he needed to suffer through as he ripped at his own armor. His carnage lay strewn around him, coated in his – no, _Unicron’s_ – blood. Finally, specks of blue fell at his pedes.

Megatronus smiled. It was grim and possibly insane, but his stains brought himself pleasure. He was free, free, free from the last terrible thing that kept him from his goal. From the one thing he deserved - that would be his one freedom.

He stumbled forward, far too weak, but he didn’t care. The sound of a blade sliding out of his armor resonated through the empty room. The snap of the blade as he ripped it from his armor made the former sound like silence.

Megatronus saw his own reflection in the blade he now held. Those eyes, those red eyes, that belonged to him gave him chills; it was those eyes that reminded Megatronus of every spark that he had killed; every spark forced to stare into those horrible eyes in their last moments.

He stood there for a moment more, recalling every sin and every victory. His life had been a catalyst of disaster, its very presence fodder for the destruction he wrought. It was sickening.

And he had lost. He lost the war and his dignity, both terrible shames to a gladiator. He was no better than scum for what he had did. There was no redemption in sight; only one solution.

Megatronus regarded the blade with disdain one more time. Contempt, fear, and sorrow clouded him all at once.

“I yield,” he whispered.

And he thrust the blade into his spark.

* * *

 

It was a familiar servo that caught him.

The Well of AllSparks appeared bright, a glorious sheen in the distance, away from the oblivion in which he floated. A place for lost sparks.

But someone had dragged him away from the void, into the light. Megatronus smiled, feeling the bliss of the Well calling him and melting away memories. Orion Pax smiled too.

“These days past might have been rough, my friend,” Orion spoke. “But this is the day it all ends.”

Megatronus accepted his friend’s servo. “Agreed, my friend.”

And the two sparks joined the mass of light, where war would rage no longer.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you aren't mad at me. If so, feel free to comment. (My feelings aren't easily hurt, but be gentle anyways!) Or... if you wish to share your enthusiasm and praises, I'm all ears too! (This is my first story on AO3. I'm needy. Review.)
> 
> Thanks for reading, fair peoples!


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